


Burned

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's best to plan for the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burned

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/profile)[**watsons_woes**](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/) July Writing Prompt #1: _Tempting Fate. "What's the worst that could happen?" Use this however it inspires you._  
>  Also fills my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) [prompt](http://ancalime8301.livejournal.com/915182.html): fire
> 
> So this one kind of got away from me... while I had time enough to write it, I'm up past my bedtime to post it, so it's gotten nothing more than a spellcheck.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

Holmes never spoke the words, but the sentiment hung in the air as he described our evening's work to capture the arsonist he'd been tracking for days. The man seemed unaware of Holmes' attention and was adhering to his usual schedule, which meant he would arrive at his customary pub in about an hour's time and likely remain for several hours, departing only after he had imbibed rather too much. It would be simplicity itself to nab him when he emerged from the pub; no fighting, no chasing, why, there was hardly even a need to bring my revolver.

Holmes had the Irregulars tailing the man to be certain he appeared where and when he was expected, of course, and we would arrive at the pub as if to have a drink ourselves about a half hour after our target arrived, to be certain we knew when he was leaving. Lestrade and some of his men would find positions around the building as we took our places inside, and thus the man would be neatly trapped whenever he decided to depart.

I pointedly placed my loaded revolver in my pocket as we prepared to leave; my medical bag, however, had to stay behind, as it would look too out of place in the pub where we would be spending the evening.

We took a cab to the vicinity, planning to approach on foot with the Yarders a discreet distance behind us. As soon as we were within sight of the pub, however, one of the Irregulars ran up to us. "He just left, Mr. Holmes, and went down the alley toward the river. Charlie and Tommy are followin', quiet-like."

Holmes cursed and took off in the direction the lad indicated. I instructed the boy to remain and tell the police behind us the same thing, then hurried after Holmes.

Several of the other Irregulars lingered at the corner of the alley and, when I had passed them, took up pursuit behind me. I could just see Holmes disappearing around another corner up ahead, and tried to speed up so I did not lose his trail. A couple of the lads handily passed me, hesitated at the corner until I caught up, then hurried on in Holmes' wake as he chased our arsonist.

Only when I realized there were fewer footsteps echoing mine did I look back to see that one of the Irregulars had halted at the crossing we just passed, presumably to direct the Yarders who I thought I could hear in the distance.

I had no hope of catching up to Holmes. He was too fleet of foot and knew the streets too well for me to match his speed, but two lads ahead of me--I took them to be Charlie and Tommy, who had initially been tailing our suspect--did an admirable job of hesitating behind him just long enough for me to follow the twists and turns that our suspect took in his flight.

He led us steadily closer to the river, where the developing fog in addition to the deepening darkness of night made the Irregulars' boys-as-breadcrumbs trick invaluable. Then, at long last, his path straightened out and I could vaguely make out Holmes' form about a block ahead of me. He veered to the right and vanished into a large wooden building whose purpose I could not make out in the fog.

"Find the exits!" I breathlessly commanded the boys who still shadowed my heels, and they took off in front of me, speeding ahead like eager hounds.

When I arrived at the doorway Holmes had taken, I heard a shout and I hesitated, just a moment, as I realized that something didn't smell right. Just as that thought registered in my mind, I was thrown backward and the building exploded into flames.

As soon as my eyes opened, I got up off the ground, gingerly exploring what would be a lump on the back of my head by morning. There was no blood, so my immediate concern was Holmes, who likely had been knocked insensible by the blast as I had been. I was not out long--the Yarders were only just arriving--but Holmes was much closer to the source and also the flames, which were fortunately still limited to the interior of the building.

"Has anyone seen Holmes?" I demanded of all within earshot, police constable and street lad alike. There was no immediate answer, and I pulled out my handkerchief in preparation to venture inside.

"Doctor!" A shout from the other side of the building stopped me. "Doctor, over here!"

Lestrade was close at my heels as I rounded the building to find constable who'd called. He was crouched near a doorway, his arm up and his nose tucked into his elbow against the smoke, and one of the Irregulars danced from one foot to the other beside him. "Look, there!" he said, pointing at what seemed to be a shoe about twenty-five feet from the door.

"I'm right behind you, Doctor," Lestrade said. I did not take the time to acknowledge him and simply plunged into the smoky interior.

The conflagration was rapidly climbing up the beams supporting the roof as we ventured inside; it would not be long before the entire structure was ablaze. We had to hurry if we were to emerge alive.

The shoe was lacking its foot, but another five feet or so closer to a flaming pile of barrels I thought I spied its owner. The man was facedown and unmoving, one of his legs perilously close to the fire. I rushed forward and began pulling him toward the door by his arm, realizing distantly that I recognized the tweed of his jacket even as I took hold of it.

Lestrade took the other arm and we clumsily dragged Holmes toward the door, hurrying as fast as we could despite the awkward hold but not daring to stop long enough to get a better grip.

Another constable picked up Holmes' legs as soon as we were clear of the doorway, and we moved some distance down the street, trailed by the rest of the constables and what I hoped was all of Holmes' Irregulars. We turned Holmes over as we laid him gently on the damp cobbles and I cursed the absence of my medical bag.

Holmes was breathing, at least, and while his face was grimy with dirt and soot, it did not appear that he'd been burned. Any longer and his trousers would likely have caught fire, but we had come in time.

I patted his cheek and called his name and, finally, his eyelids moved. He groaned, then coughed roughly and for long enough that I feared there was damage to his lungs. I had one of the constables help me lever him into a sitting position and eventually the coughing stopped. As soon as he caught his breath, he said hoarsely, "Watson?"

"Yes, I'm here. What became of our arsonist?"

He opened his eyes and smiled grimly. "I startled him and he stumbled into his own trap. Precariously balanced barrels do not care whether they fall upon their intended target or not."

"The explosion," I said.

He nodded. "Caused by some concoction inside the barrels." He sniffed his sleeve. "Gunpowder and lamp oil. They are easy enough to obtain."

"You are fortunate to be alive," Lestrade said gruffly.

"Yes."

Lestrade had some of his men find us a cab. While we waited, Holmes dismissed the Irregulars, assuring them he was relatively undamaged and promising ample reward for their invaluable assistance. I listened with only half an ear; the rest of my attention was upon the burning building. The fire brigade had arrived, but too late to salvage the structure, so they remained only to ensure the fire did not spread. Fortunately, the building, whatever it had been, had no near neighbors, so the damage was easily contained. The roof fell in with a roar and a shower of sparks just as a constable returned to tell us our cab was waiting.

Holmes was rueful about the loss of his shoe, but it did not matter much as we had only to walk about a block to reach the cab, and it, in turn, dropped us at our doorstep. Holmes remained silent during the trip and did not look at me though my eyes did not stray from him, noticing his shallow breaths and the slight coughs he tried valiantly to suppress.

Mrs. Hudson greeted us at the door and exclaimed at our smoky dishevelment. Holmes started up the stairs while I assured her we would be fine and requested a strong pot of tea. Afterward I slowly ascended the stairs, a headache throbbing at my temples; I could only imagine how Holmes was feeling.

Holmes had collapsed into his armchair by the time I made it to the sitting room. I took my bag over to his chair and said sternly, "You are concussed and suffering from the ill effects of breathing smoke and whatever else was in that dreadful building. You will do as I say and be honest in answering my questions. Is that clear?"

He squinted up at me with reddened eyes and said plaintively, "Must you shout so?" He started coughing even before he finished, and I quickly pulled out my stethoscope to listen to his lungs. I continued listening when his breathing evened out; there was congestion, but it was limited to the upper airways.

"How are you feeling?" I asked gently after I had fetched him a glass of water.

"It is unusually difficult to breathe," he admitted.

I asked him a few more questions, which he answered readily. I insisted upon cleaning off his face, daubing gingerly in case his skin was burned beneath the grime; fortunately, while it was reddened, it was no worse than a mild sun-burn.

After that we both changed out of our smoky clothes, and I poured the tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up in our absence. Holmes grumbled that he would rather just retire to bed. I replied, "Remember that you are concussed. If I allow you to go sleep now, there is a possibility that you would not wake again."

Holmes meekly drank his tea after that and spoke not another word of going to bed.

I paid close attention to his breathing for several hours, fearing it might stop or become significantly more labored, for there was very little that could be done if it did. But there was no change for the worse even as the hands of the clock swung around into the wee hours of the morning.

When Holmes fell asleep in his chair, I did not immediately wake him. Only when I nearly nodded off for the third time did I heave myself from my chair and shake Holmes' shoulder. He startled awake and coughed afterward, but only briefly. "I think it's safe to sleep now," I told him.

He nodded and gingerly stood, then retired to his bedroom with a soft, "Thank you."

I was torn for a moment whether to follow and continue to keep a watchful eye over him as he slept, but my own weariness won out and I stiffly climbed the stairs to my room.

As I settled in bed, I reflected on how very grateful I was that, for all that had gone wrong that evening, it had not resulted in the very worst that could happen.

I hoped fervently that it never would.

**Author's Note:**

> In reality, Holmes would almost certainly have needed oxygen and/or intubation, but I didn't have time to go that far with it (not to mention the limitations on the possible interventions due to the time period). So it's an implausible ending to a ficlet that probably has plot holes big enough to drive a bus through. That's what happens when I write a nearly 2000-word fic within a span of 15 hours (while also working 8-ish of those hours). ;-)


End file.
